


Convinced our Voices Can’t be Heard: A Brian May x Reader Oneshot

by sweet_ladyy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Power Outage, Quickies, Recording Studio, Studio Sex, Thunderstorms, dark rooms, sassy boy deaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_ladyy/pseuds/sweet_ladyy
Summary: Brian invites you to come watch the band's recording session, when suddenly a storm outside cuts the lights and electricity. And, well, when the opportunity presents itself...





	Convinced our Voices Can’t be Heard: A Brian May x Reader Oneshot

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Brian May, Queen, or any other affiliated names or fictional events.
> 
> The prompt for this fic came from an anonymous request: "Smutty / Fluufy Brian w/ Sass-Boi Deaks My name is Elizabeth (Eliza or Eli for short) (not Liz or Lizzie tho plz thanks)"
> 
> Well, all I can say about this fic is: muahahahaha. You ask for smut, and I gladly deliver. Enjoy. Oh also, I decided to retain the filler name “[Y/N]” (your name) for all of my fics written in second person POV from now on!

The welcome warmth of the studio building envelops you like a blanket. Shrugging off your rain jacket, you make your way down the hall to the studio recording rooms. Brian had invited you over the telephone to join his band in their recording session today.

_“You’re sure I won’t be intruding?” you’d asked cautiously._

_“Nonsense. Of course not, love. You can just sit and relax on one of the couches in the control room,” he’d reassured you. “Plus, you’d be a welcome and much needed break.”_

What ever could he have meant by that?

When you peek your head inside the live room, Brian’s eyes find you immediately. He’s donning his Red Special slung across his lean shoulders and a pair of headphones atop his wild hair. A huge smile spreads across his entire face, a wildfire of warmth. He immediately tears his headphones off and sets his guitar on a stand.

“Oy, Bri, we’re in the middle of a take!” Roger’s voice shouts.

But Brian pays him no heed, his eyes fixated on you. He crosses the room and hoists you in the air by your waist, twirling you around.

“Brian!!!” you giggle.

And then he kisses you, once on your lips, once on each cheek, once on your nose. “It’s so good to see you,” he breathes. And then he studies your sopping clothes and shoes. “You’re soaked to the bone!”

“It’s storming outside! Now get back to your recording session!” you chastise, but there’s no malice. And neither is there in the other band members either, it seems. Roger taps his finger to his watch, but he’s smiling fondly. John is pretending to be immersed in working out a complicated riff, and he’s giving the two of you a bit of side-eye, but otherwise seems unfazed. Freddie’s practically making heart eyes at the two of you.

So you shove Brian along. “Let’s do more of that later,” you say to him under your breath, looking conspicuously at his lips. He raises an eyebrow at that and slinks back to the others. 

You know he’ll be replaying and analyzing those words for the next few hours.

The band gets back into the groove of the song. You take it upon yourself to find the control room, waving a quick hello to their producers behind the console. Flopping onto the dingy couch at the back of the room, you tear your wet shoes off. You shiver in your dress, knowing the weather is much too chilly for such attire but also knowing how much Brian likes it when you wear dresses. Despite the room’s soundproof architecture, you can still hear the sharp clatter of the torrential downpour outside and the not-so-occasional boom of thunder.

The band sounds good. Really, good. Especially Brian. His guitar solos never fail to pierce your soul in the best of ways. You think of all the nights spent around the fire in his living room, the rich lull of the twelve-string in his hands and the angelic quality of his voice.

Combined with your job and his commitments to the recording sessions for Queen, it’s been too long since you’ve seen each other.

“Alright, that was a good run,” Freddie’s voice sounded through the speakers. “Let’s break off to do some solo work in the—”

_BOOM._

A deafening crack of lightning shakes the entire building like an earthquake. Then the studio is immersed in complete darkness.

You gasp, sitting up on the couch. There’s not a single light in the entire room.

“Shit, the power’s gone out!” one of the audio engineers swore. Your heart pounds with sudden adrenaline.

One of the engineers makes his way to the soundproof door leading to the live room, cursing when he stubs his toe. The overlapping sounds of the band’s raised voices seem to be amplified in the lack of light.

“—christ!”

“Please tell me we didn’t lose any of the tape—”

“A waste of our money and time…”

“We’re going to die!!!!”

“ _Please_ , don’t be so melodramatic, Fred.”

“Deacon, you’ll be the first to die!”

“Where’s my fuckin’ drumstick?”

“Does anyone have a lighter?”

“Oh, yeah, hold on.”

A flick of something metallic-sounding, and dim light from Roger’s lighter swathes the live room. Vague shadows now visible, you stand up and tiptoe to the door leading into the live room.

“I think lightning struck the building,” says John’s voice. “Must have fried the electricity box. And the backup generator.”

“Say, uh, John, did you happen to study electrical engineering?”

“One more word out of you, Taylor, and I’ll light you on fire and use you as a human candle.”

The whole scene is rather comical, but you bite back your chuckles. Brian hasn’t said much. You look for his features, but he’s stepped too far into the shadows.

“Well, what the fuck do we do now?” Freddie asks.

“We need to find some candles, or flashlights,” says one of the producers. “I’ll see if the front desk has any.”

“I think I saw a flashlight on the top shelf in the supply closet in the control room,” Brian finally says. “I’ll go find it.”

“ROGER, GET THAT FLAME AWAY FROM MY HAIR!”

“I didn’t see you — oof!”

“Watch where you’re going, you fairies!”

The other band members start giggling and chasing each other around equipment in some game, and you realize then that they’ve all forgotten you were here. But Brian hasn’t. His dark figure, silhouetted by the dim light, stalks toward the control room — toward you.  _The supply closet in the control room…_ You look behind you. There is no supply closet in the control room.

With a quiet click, Brian closes the door behind him and turns the lock. Sudden silence engulfs the control room, and Roger’s lighter flame from outside just barely illuminates through the window. It’s certainly too dark for the others to see through it.

Tentatively, Brian reaches his hand out to meet your arm. You can hear his breaths. And then he’s attacking you. He seizes you around the waist and pulls you close, pressing a hot kiss to your lips. Your teeth collide, followed by the press of his tongue against yours. Without thinking, your hands bury in his hair.

Your breathing grows ragged. “Brian…”

His mouth finds your collarbone, and you know you’ll find delightful bruises there later. “‘Let’s do more of that later,’ you said,” he quotes you. “God, do you know how much that turned me on, [Y/N]?”

“ _This_  is what you’ve been thinking about the entire session?” you giggle, but the laugh is cut off by a searching hand beneath your shirt, slipping under your bra and pinching your nipple. You inhale sharply, body suddenly yearning toward him.

“You don’t have a clue what you do to me. I miss you,” he says.  _“I need you.”_

And then Brian backs you onto the couch again, and you let yourself fall onto it lengthwise. Your skirt rides up to your hips, and though he can’t see it in the darkness, you know his hands will soon.

Sure enough, as he lowers himself on the couch with you, his hands find your bare legs and he nearly growls. He grips the curves of your thighs, hands moving up. Outside, the other band members seem to still be laughing and joking around. They won’t even notice Brian’s gone.

His passion for you incites a deep desire within your own body. Never mind that it’s the dingy studio couch, that there’s not a single thing either of you can see, that his bandmates are just outside the control room, that the lights could come on again at any minute. You bite your lip, feeling suddenly very frisky.

So when Brian’s lips meet your face again, you break away to give him the confirmation he needs. “I’ve been thinking about you, too. And I need you.”

He groans and crawls on top of you, your legs around his waist. His erection beneath his trousers presses into your groin. The risk of it all adds to the excitement, and you shudder in anticipation.

“You’re sure, love?”

_“Brian.”_

“Yes?”

_“I need you._  I need your cock inside me.  _Now.”_

“Fuck,” he says, unzipping his pants.

“You could call it that, too,” you say.

And without another moment’s hesitation, he pulls aside your underwear and slides inside of you. The suddenness of it brings a moan to your lips. “Yes,” you say.

He’s so warm around you,  _inside of you_ , his long curls tickling your neck with each thrust. The fact that you can’t see a damn thing seems to heighten each sensation, the fullness, the inevitable surge of primal desire like a volt of electricity every time he pushes in.

“Faster,” you gasp. He responds with a newfound intensity, his movements taking on an urgency unlike before. Flourishes of arousal decorate every nerve ending of your groin. You can barely hold in your moans of pleasure anymore. Another rumble of thunder from somewhere close by rattles the building, but you barely register it.

“[Y/N], my naughty girl,” he growls in your ear. “I want you to scream and moan for me. They can’t hear. But I want to hear you.”

You let yourself go, an involuntary whimper with each thrust turning into loud moans. Soon, he’s vocalizing in tow. Everything is moving so deliciously fast. His body, hot and alive above yours, makes yours feel alive with an urgent intensity. You grasp helplessly onto his shoulders, watching colors dance before your eyes despite the darkness as an orgasm grows.

“Brian,” you keen. “Brian…  _Brian!”_

“Come for me, princess,” he rasps. Your whole body convulses, and your moans morph into shrieks. You contract around his member, a sensation that must tip him over the edge too, because he’s now gasping and grunting into your neck.

Warmth spreads everywhere, bringing forth a fine sheath of sweat to your skin. You lie prone beneath him, catching your breath as he slowly pulls himself out of you.

The control room door starts rattling.

You and Brian jolt upright. “Shit,” you both say at the same time.

Luckily, the lock holds. Brian quickly wipes a cloth — his handkerchief? — across your ass and legs to clean you up before zipping himself up again. Still trying to recover, you adjust your disheveled dress and try to smooth down your hair again. Everything still aches and pulses in a lovely way.

“You think they know what we did?” he says in a wry voice. You can’t see him, so you reach for his face to feel for a smile. It’s there.

“Almost certainly. But I don’t care.”

“Dirty girl,” he says. “Now, uhh… Any clue if there’s a flashlight in here?”

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

 


End file.
